


Empty Gold

by Fleurete



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fleurete/pseuds/Fleurete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of Kageyama and Oikawa’s relationship through three encounters scattered across time and space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Gold

The first time Kageyama sees him is on the battlefield, above the dust kicked up by horses and through the haze of his own mind.

 

The voice of Kageyama’s commander rings over the heads of soldiers, but the sound is masked by Kageyama’s own heart. Each breath has been coming to him harder and harder, the exertion in his limbs causing him to falter slightly in the precise strokes of his sword and in the swift movements of his feet.

A flash of silver at the corner of his eye alerts him to a spear well on its way toward him and he quickly sidesteps the bulk of the hit, lessening the damage to a gash on his arm. The resulting flash of pain is enough to cause him to waver in his counterattack and he winces, only managing to slash into the other man’s side. Kageyama steels himself to follow up on his attack, and soon his sword is plunged into his opponent’s heart. The stench of spilled blood fills his nose, but a small surge of euphoria courses through him.

He doesn’t think the joy of victory will wear thin any moment soon.

Men are dropping to the ground all around him, most of them bearing the same bird insignia imprinted on his own armor. He hears his commander calling for them to fall back, but he focuses all his attention on maintaining the rhythm of his movements. His body inches closer toward its limits but he pushes, his actions gaining speed and losing precision. Even with the odds stacked against him and the rest of his nation’s soldiers, he refuses to pause. To stop would be to back down.

That was what he told himself every day for the last six months. On the day he turned fifteen, he and the other boys who lived in his village were summoned and brought to another town within the province to be trained. Some of those gathered were older, with a wife and children. The rest, like Kageyama, left only their parents and siblings behind. Many had been just old enough to carry a weapon, and merely a handful were able to do so without also hurting themselves in the process.

The first week he saw his family during fitful bouts of sleep, and during the second he saw someone two years his junior collapse under the heat of the afternoon sun. The boy’s corpse was brought back to his family five days later in a caravan that was too small for him and covered in flimsy, torn cloth.

The now imagined sensations of wet soil shifting beneath his feet and the scent of his family’s fields after rain filled him for the first month, and he lived in the hopes of being able to experience them once more. When he first used a sword, the blade seemed to be a formerly missing extension of his arm. Fighting came easily to him, and the attention and scorn this brought him caused visions of victory to join his memories of home.

To stop now would mean not only surrendering to those who had granted land a greater importance than its people and had taken him away, but also to those who wanted him to join the ranks of littered dead.

A blade slicing into his cheek causes Kageyama to stagger for a second time. He tries to retaliate, but his vision swims and he has to make an effort to stand his ground. He braces himself and brings his sword up to his head to block the incoming assault just as a spear pierces his adversary’s abdomen. Kageyama can make out the distinctive armor and black feather-embellished helmet of his commander. The other man’s roar of _Get on!_ penetrates Kageyama’s rapidly deteriorating state of mind enough to cause him to hastily push himself onto his commander’s horse.

They carve a path through the enemy soldiers and away from the brunt of the attack. Kageyama protests their retreat, but a sweeping wave of nausea forces him to focus all his effort on maintaining his upright position.

They stop at a small clearing at the side of the field near a slight grove, and Kageyama dismounts. Seating himself against the trunk of a particularly large tree, he rips off two pieces of his inner shirt and wraps one strip around the wound on his arm with the other being held against his cheek. His commander watches Kageyama struggling to get up then looks at the sun high in the air and says, _You can rest now._

Kageyama doesn’t stall in his attempts to get to his feet. There were still so many opponents left standing.

A sudden unsteadiness grips him and he reluctantly seats himself once more. The ringing in his ears masks the sounds of galloping horses from some distance behind him, but he feels the vibrations of the earth beneath his hands and he hopes his commander is right.

He resists the urge to close his eyes and black out the spots in his vision. He hastily withdraws his hands into his lap just as a blur of white and blue rushes past him, followed by at least a dozen more. The wind settles around him and he is left to watch the clash unfold.

The sounds of surprise erupting from the battlefield are so loud that they puncture the ringing in his ears—shouts turn to screams as men in the opposing army are mowed down almost effortlessly. He watches a man with a black head of hair and a red steed shoot an arrow at the knee of a retreating horse, causing its rider to tumble to the ground.

Kageyama’s eyes are drawn to the centre of the field that is now covered all over with a light shroud of dust. The man’s armor do not identify him as different from the rest of the men, but his actions—completely fluid and purposeful movements, whether it be to weaken and debilitate the enemy before striking him down, or to perform a feint to throw a veil over his next move—mark him as their leader and attract Kageyama’s attention like a moth to a flame.

Watching this man in the heat of battle, Kageyama feels an unrecognizable emotion flooding him. Even through the dense fog in his head, Kageyama knows he has never experienced this while watching his superiors fight, or while practicing with other soldiers.

For the last half year, he has always been praised for his innate talent that has led to countless victories over his peers. Still, his desire to win has never been connected with a drive to _improve._ He feels like a fire has been lit in him, warmth reaching out from under his skin. The flames are fanned as Kageyama continues to watch the other man block a series of attacks before finding a moment to intercept.

The remainder of Kageyama’s strength slithers away as the last enemy soldier falls to his knees. His commander claps him on the shoulder, but all his concentration is focused on the man now taking off his helmet. The concerned voice of his commander is only a whisper to him and in a few moments his eyes slip closed and his mind goes blank. The last image he sees is a man sitting on an ivory horse with his hair shaken out and helm in hand, flickering in and out of his memory like a mirage.

 

* * *

 

The first time Kageyama hears his voice is within the walls of his own castle, surrounded by those have hated him.

 

The scent of burning sandalwood incense wafts throughout the halls, the calming notes providing an undertone of tranquility within the palace.

Kageyama’s eyes rake over the map in front of him. The light filters in through the window behind his seat at the low table, illuminating a handful of multicolored tiles and the thick brushstrokes of the map. He runs a finger over two neighbouring territories to the north and five to the east. It has taken eight months for him to conquer all seven. He looks to the countries south of his border. The open grassland would be favourable for his men, but the lack of cover would make an ambush almost impossible. He moves a tile, its blue paint cracking in places, onto the region in the west. Seijou is known for its dense greenery and abundant rivers. Kageyama dips a brush into the inkstone near the edge of the table, then marks the approximate location of Seijou’s castle. The several battalions he could deploy would progress undetected until the forests made way for flat terrain, at which point he could have them cut across the river nearest to the stronghold and launch an attack late into the night. Seijou would be overtaken before the month’s end.

Kageyama is about to pick up an orange tile when the door slides open to reveal one of his oldest advisors.  “Your Majesty, Yamamoto has not yet returned. We have not received any word from his messenger.” Kageyama does not bother to look up when he replies, “Notify me as soon as he arrives.” The old man nods and closes the door behind him, but it opens again a moment later.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty. If you would permit it, I would like to discuss the rations set aside for the eighth battalion.”

Without lifting his head, Kageyama recognizes the slight drawl to the voice as belonging to Kimura, a general of his army. “What?”

“We need more supplies. Our food is starting to run low and can only last for two more weeks, at most. If we are to head north again, a month’s worth of rations should suffice,” Kimura replies.

Kageyama moves a black tile onto a fortress near the southern border. “It’s enough.”

Kimura’s next words are defiant and Kageyama can hear the sound of his armor as he steps forward. “It would be enough if we were not leaving for another campaign in two days. We have just returned from the east; we cannot keep the same pace for much longer.”

The table shifts and some tiles are knocked over as Kageyama stands, his fists clenched. His voice is loud when he says, “You have to strike while they’re weak. All their allies are yielding, now is the best chance to defeat them! Just hurry up and you won’t need to be on the road for so long.”

Kageyama sees Kimura’s eyes narrow and his body stiffen. They watch each other from opposite ends of the room through the silence hanging over them. Each refuses to waver until Kimura says tightly, “Understood, Your Majesty,” and turns on his heel.

The soft sound of the door being closed seems to echo, a blaring noise drowning out Kageyama’s thoughts. His crescent-marked palms flatten out and he sets the tiles upright. He sits down to resume his observation of the map, but his prior thoughts have escaped him and his circlet feels oddly tight around his head. In a moment of frustration, he stands up once again and turns to look out the window.

The castle grounds are dotted with trees in the peak of their bloom, pink clouds in a sea of green. Small figures are bent over and tending to hedges lining the pathways while others are practicing with newly-made firearms. Kageyama sees many of his soldiers talking to each other or sitting around the lake, sparking a flare of annoyance. Kimura hasn’t been the first to confront him, and Kageyama has rebuffed all of them. They have come to him on several occasions to protest the number of crusades he has undertaken or the hardships of these campaigns, but every time Kageyama has dismissed them. When strategizing, he has repeatedly run through each of his plans to ensure the greatest chance of success and the results have been impeccable, with his kingdom becoming more powerful by the day. What else matters?

He continues to watch the mild buzz of activity below him. The sun causes the lake to shimmer and some have relocated to more shady areas. He spots two of his generals heading to the gate and squints to get a closer look. Was Yamamoto back? Nobody informed him of—

The castle shakes abruptly, sending Kageyama almost falling into the table. Shouts of surprise and fright break out in the hallway. One of his attendants bursts through the door and asks, “Are you all right, Your Majesty?”

Kageyama dusts himself off and nods. He grabs his sword propped up in a corner of the room before striding out. The other man hurries to catch up. When he speaks, his voice is harried. “Something hit the wall of the palace. Ishida was nearby, but she said no one was hurt.”

A soldier rushes to Kageyama from the staircase at the end of the hallway and says, “Your command, Your Majesty.”

Kageyama gives his orders. “Arm the musketeers and head to the battlements. Hold them off.” The soldier bows and starts rounding up the gunners. Kageyama faces his attendant and tells him, “Find Ikeda and Kimura, then have them and their men lead the charge.” His attendant inclines his head and makes a dash for the stairs.

The building trembles once more and Kageyama has to grab onto the wall. He looks out the nearest window, and the gaping doors of the gate chill him to the bone. Men are pouring through, their white and blue armor stains in the mist of pink. He pales when he spots Yamamoto behind them, leading his own battalion.

Kageyama does not see any of his generals on his way downstairs. A soldier hoisting a gun on his shoulder walks over to him and nods hesitantly. He says, “Y-your Majesty, some of our men are out there. Should we still open fire…?”

“Don’t.” Kageyama rushes through the vast halls of the castle, and the lack of many of his soldiers becomes more conspicuous with each step he takes. He turns over the last few weeks in his head. Yamamoto was scheduled to return two days ago, but it was not uncommon for his campaigns to take longer than expected. The second and fourth units were sent to the north, the few men he had ordered to the border for reconnaissance returned swiftly. Nothing unusual. In a moment of dread, he looks back further, months back.  He does not remember anything out of place.

Kageyama is on the first floor when he sees the first enemy soldiers that have breached the palace. He cuts them down but another one catches him unaware and causes him to back up through the doorway behind him leading to the throne room. Kageyama kills him, and the body drops to the ground. He only manages to take a breath before a bullet flies above him, grazing his hair and hitting the throne seated atop a small set of stairs. His disorientation allows another man to restrain him, and Kageyama curses as he hears the clang of steel falling to the floor and feels rope being tied around his wrists behind his back.

Several more soldiers walk in, some of his own men among them. Humiliation causes his face to redden and his shoulders to slump. He finds it difficult to swallow, and he can feel the eyes of those he used to command boring into him, complicit in his undoing.

He looks up once he hears footsteps nearing him. A man with hair almost covering one of his eyes lays his hand on the back of Kageyama’s captor, who then steps aside. This man, Kageyama assumes, is their king.

Kageyama glowers at the other man who in turn peers at him curiously, his large eyes cataloguing every feature of Kageyama’s appearance. Kageyama is about to bite something out when the king’s expression changes so suddenly that Kageyama tries not to recoil. The man’s brown eyes narrow and his mouth creeps into a smirk, and Kageyama has to take a step back. When the other man speaks, his voice is just loud enough for the room to hear. “So, you’re the tyrant king. Who knew the famous warlord was so young.”

The man steps forward and he ends up being so close to Kageyama that their bodies are almost touching. Kageyama is forced to back up even more, but his heel meets wood and he falls backward onto the staircase behind him. He hisses when the hard edges of the steps push into his arms.

The king doesn’t let up in his pursuit, and soon he is kneeling in front of Kageyama, looming over him. The only things separating their faces are their own breaths, Kageyama’s frantic and heaving and the other man’s calm and rhythmic. The smile on the man’s face is now small but sincere, a slight curve of the lips so unlike the scorn on his face earlier.

The other man reaches his hands out and Kageyama braces himself, preparing for the worst. Instead, the circlet is plucked off his head and set aside on the floor. The man leans in, and Kageyama feels his hair against his cheek and hot air on the shell of his ear when he whispers, "You’re no longer king.”

 

* * *

 

The first time they touch is on the court, elated by the high of victory and deafened by the cheers of the crowd.

 

“M-more rice please … and some egg …”

Kageyama turns onto his back as Hinata continues to mumble in his sleep. Despite the extremely early hour, the sound of passing cars filters through the walls and into their room. He glares at the still form underneath the covers in the bed next to his. After five days of matches with nights filled with restless tossing and turning, Hinata finally managed to sleep peacefully for the first time last night—the night before the finals. Kageyama was left listening to Hinata sleeptalk and wondering when he had caught the butterflies that Hinata is usually plagued with.

He thinks about tossing a pillow at Hinata after a particularly loud snore but decides against it. The team needs to be in peak condition, and waking up one of its players at four in the morning seems like a decidedly terrible idea. Instead, he files sleep away as a lost cause and changes into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, then heads downstairs.

A buzz of light conversation floats around the cafeteria, coming mostly from athletes relieved to have competed and the pressure from their shoulders consequently lifted. Kageyama grabs an apple and sits down. He sees a photo of his team splayed across the front page of a newspaper left on the table, and he curiously reads the headline: “Japanese Men’s Volleyball Team set to unexpectedly take home gold.”

After eating, Kageyama goes outside for a jog. The usually torrid summer heat is weakened by the chill of early morning, and the sweat forming on the back of his neck cools almost immediately. He soon finds himself at the stadium that he and the rest of his team have been competing in for the past week. The arena is similar to the ones he’s been to previously, but the exhilaration he feels at having made it—to the top of Japan, and maybe even the world—has not lessened and seems reflected in the soaring ceilings and bright lights, overwhelming him in a way that makes his veins pump and his heart race.

When he steps onto the court, he notices a cart filled with volleyballs already out. In his peripheral vision he sees a ball flying toward him, and he swiftly changes his stance to send it hurling back. Oikawa steps forward to return it, and they wordlessly pass the ball back and forth across the court. Time and practice have made it easier for Kageyama to control Oikawa’s incredibly powerful serves, but the months they have spent on the same side of the court have dulled his memories of Oikawa as an opponent, as someone to surpass. He barely manages to return some of Oikawa’s passes, and their match ends when Kageyama spikes the ball past him and along the sideline.

When Oikawa comes back to the net after having retrieved the ball, Kageyama asks, “Why are you here so early?”

Oikawa starts picking up some of the balls strewn on the floor and putting them back in the cart. “I got kicked out of our room for putting the tv on too loud.” Kageyama raises his eyebrow, because what was on at four in the morning? Oikawa waves his hand dismissively and continues, “Ushiwaka’s a light sleeper. Now be a good boy and put this in front of the end line, on the right side.” He grabs an empty water bottle previously sitting on the bench and hands it to Kageyama, who glares daggers at Oikawa but follows the command.

Almost immediately after Kageyama steps away from the bottle, Oikawa tosses a ball up and takes a running start before slamming it down into the other side of the court, sending the bottle flying into the back wall in the process. Being a spectator to Oikawa’s serves has never ceased to spark awe in Kageyama, from his first time witnessing it in junior high to seeing it again twelve months ago for the first time in five years.

After having been recruited for the national team last summer, he and Hinata were flown into Tokyo from Sendai. Kageyama’s surprise at encountering Oikawa during their first practice was mirrored on both their faces. What surprised Kageyama less was seeing the extent of Oikawa’s improvement, seeing his immensely powerful serves and the now mended holes in his abilities. Watching him play with people they had just met, Kageyama felt like a fifteen year old again—weak in the face of talent so far out of his reach.

It was during a practice match among the twelve members of his team that Kageyama remembered that the past five years served to hone his own skills, that talent was already in his grasp.

Kageyama feels the cold plastic cap of the bottle press against his forehead, and he swats away the hand holding the bottle. Oikawa cackles and says, “A fly could’ve landed on your face and you wouldn’t even notice.” He tosses the ball he is holding back into the basket and points to the door. “The rest should be waking up soon. Unless you want to keep fantasizing about breakfast…?”

The stadium is starting to fill up in preparation for the day’s events. Kageyama responds with a simple _Shut up_ and follows Oikawa out the door.

The following hours tick by, filled with many washroom visits by Hinata and plenty of (one-sided) bickering between Oikawa and Ushijima. The raucous partying from athletes already done with their competitions fills the building, and Kageyama finds himself itching to leave and step onto the court for the second time that day. After a small lunch, the team switches into their red-and-black uniforms and heads to the arena.

They start to warm up with an hour remaining until the match. The court is surrounded by seats on all sides, many of them occupied by people hoping and eager to witness Japan win gold for the first time in almost fifty years, and especially desiring to see the win on home soil. Even with some time left before the event, banners bearing the flag of Japan are starting to be unfurled by the audience. Others are carrying small pennants that are barely visible from Kageyama’s position on the court.

After stretching, the team practices spiking tosses from the setters. Kageyama sets first, sending tosses to his teammates in turn. The past year has attuned him well to the capabilities of each member, and his sets are attacked with ease.

Once Kageyama is finished, Oikawa approaches the net and prepares to toss. Kageyama’s turn to spike comes, and he shoots forward. The ball seems to drop in front of him at the apex of his jump, suspended for a fraction of a second by the eyes of the court. His arm swings forward, and in the next instant the ball hurtles to the ground, a bullet ricocheting toward the ceiling.

His reception of Oikawa’s sets— themselves tailored to fit his own exact aim—as if it is second nature conceals the challenges they faced as a unit last year.

After many practice matches once the whole team was assembled, it was decided that they would transition into a different formation and incorporate two setters in play at once, allowing the best use of both Kageyama and Oikawa’s strengths as setters and as offensive players. During the first couple of months, sessions would end in arguments about just who had thrown a volleyball at the back of Kageyama’s head (Oikawa, with the blame pinned on Hinata), or about his own abilities (“Make sure not to send me any tosses that I can’t get, Tobio-chan!”). At times the strain between Kageyama and Oikawa would show on the court in the imprecise sets they would prepare for each other.

While time has not dampened the friction pervasive in their relationship, it has enabled a camaraderie to blossom that is now present in every toss and every leap of faith made to reach the ball.

The stadium is almost completely packed once the match starts. The opposing team is predictably one of the hardest Kageyama has faced yet, but his head remains cool point after point scored. Soon his jersey is damp from exertion and the gaze of the glaring lights. His movements on the court are meticulous and deliberate—jump once the toss reaches its peak before aiming the ball at the weakest point of the opponents’ defence, or observe the unusually slow block of the vanguard’s number twelve before setting up an extremely rapid quick.

Noise erupts from the seats after each rally, and with each set that passes Kageyama can feel victory inching closer and closer. He senses the same sentiment in the minds of each of his teammates, in the increasing strength behind their attacks and receives. In what seems like a moment, the fifth set begins. Both countries gain a sizeable number of points, but Japan edges into the lead by two points at fourteen. Kageyama inhales deeply and takes note of the current rotation—Takahiro, Ueda, and Oikawa in the vanguard; Hinata and Kanai to his right. The whistle blows, and the ball is launched into the air. The other team sends it flying back, and Kanai has to dive to receive it. Kageyama gets into position to set the ball. A series of thoughts run like snapshots through his head—Hinata is unable to attack effectively from the back row, Takahiro has been marked by the number eight in the front for much of the game, Ueda has difficulty forcing the ball past blockers.

After a moment’s decision, he sends the ball to Oikawa at the other end of the court, who then spikes the ball down at an angle almost parallel to the net and in between the opposing vanguard. The tweet of the whistle is instantaneous, and thunderous applause resonates throughout the arena. The explosion from the stands becomes buried underneath the whoops and cheers of Kageyama’s own team. They bring him into a crushing embrace, with Hinata’s arm around his back and Oikawa’s hand ruffling his hair.

Surrounded by the broad grins and tears of his teammates, Kageyama thinks to himself, _This is real, we’ve finally made it to the top._

**Author's Note:**

> This was born partly out of a great desire to see the two losers playing on the same team, haha.


End file.
